


Inside You

by thepeskyunicorn



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Butt Plugs, Canon-Typical Violence, Cock Warming, Just a little angst, M/M, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 21:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6723814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeskyunicorn/pseuds/thepeskyunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Q,” he says quietly. “I need it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside You

**Author's Note:**

> For [beaubete](http://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete), for whom without her, this wouldn't even have a plot

His plane lands at 1400 and he’s in Q branch by 1430, definitely breaking more than a few traffic laws on the way there, slotting in the keys into his Aston Martin and going faster than he needs to, guided by the trial of green light from Heathrow to Six.

The mission had gone perfectly, meaning to say that his hands are blotted with blood and the gash on his cheek would take a few weeks to heal, but he would otherwise be looking forward to a satisfied nod from M and a few days of rest. He had done well; he has no regrets, and yet.

It was a child, barely in her teens, too thin and blank eyed, dressed prettily and sat on the chair next to the target. He had burst in, gun raised, ready to kill, when the target had turn and shot her, point blank.

She blinks at him, and it was like watching a pantomime, the way her limb jerks and then go stiff, blood leaking from the perfectly formed hole in the middle of her forehead. She collapsed, and it was as if the world has forgotten her existence right then and there.

He killed the man with his bare hands, unable to shoot straight with the trembling in his arms, snapping his neck in a rush of blind fury, escaping the room before the target’s cavalry arrives.

“Collateral damage,” is what they’ll call her, an unknown unfortunate on the way to a greater goal. He knows that this too shall pass, that he's seen enough shit for it to fade into the meshwork of his memories, but first, he needs to find a way to get there. He’s numb in a way that he hasn’t been in a long time, like a rookie with his first kill, and he needs a way to stop the movie reel of the little girl falling down, down, dormant, silent, splayed, the weight of her body hitting the floor, puppet with strings cut -

“Bond,” R says urgently, and when did he get here so quickly? “Bond, I’m afraid you really can’t see him now -” She shouldered past almost roughly as he surge forward, striding down the lines of curious mechanics with curious and knowing looks alike on their smug, grinning faces. He still has enough bloodlust and automatic bulldog ordered-assassin's rage to wipe the smiles off, easy as breaking bones, or slicing lemons. But he is on a hunt, and the closer he gets to the center of this sterile whirring laboratory, the closer he gets to his goal.

“Q,” he says quietly, perhaps dangerously, he can’t tell now, everything is a haze to him. The man turns, eyebrows raised, noncommittal expression almost setting him off. He keeps his tone level; he knows how much Q hates it when he brings his work into personal life. “Q, I need-” He swallows, pride choking the words from him. “I need it.”

Q stares at him for the longest of time, until he is antsy with anticipation, fingers ticking a rhythm against his thigh. Why is he taking so long? Maybe Q has decided to humiliate him, maybe today is the day that he decides Bond is not worth it, and that he should have one last chuckle before he cut ties, make him crawl, beg, kiss his feet to ask for what he wants. After all, what else could it be, other than an exercise in humiliation?

But no. “I know what you need,” Q says softly, too quiet for the rest of the nosy bastards to hear. “But I am at work. You are at work. We’ve agreed on this. You’ll just have to wait until I’m done before I give it to you.”

Bond growls, actually growls, eyes narrowing, as if considering the merits of snatching Q from his station and locking them up in the office to just take what he wants. But Q noticed the hazy idea forming, and steps very deliberately into his personal space, promptly hooking his fingers through Bond’s belt loops, anchoring him.

“Stay,” he whispers, strong as a willow weed in the storm as Bond snarls and snaps and curls his lips. And though he could, Bond is careful not to lay a finger on the other man. It’s too risky, and he never wants to hurt Q in any possible way.

Q watches him calmly, eyes alert, see the decision settle in Bond’s mind. He doesn’t like being so blatantly public with his affections, but Bond is always an exception and for today, he's more than happy to do this. They stand unspeaking, eye to eye, the room narrowing to a small tight space around them as Bond struggles to get his breathing under control, the link of fragile flesh and bone still connecting them through his belt loops. Finally, Bond swallows, gives a tight nod, eyes flicking up to gaze at him with breathtaking intensity. He will stay, and forgo his vices - wait in Q branch if he wishes - until it was time to clock out.

Q lets out a sigh, turning back to his work, professionalism in place, adjusting his movements to accommodate Bond as he lurks behind like a surly shadow, his spitfire rage dampening to simmering restlessness.

Bond hovers and loom like a hawk for the rest of the day, glaring at any who tried to comment on his being here. He mutters an apology to R when she brings Q tea, but is waved aside with a pat and a motherly smile. He is silent and watching, stress and tension slowly leaking out by increments, until one by one the other members of Q branch left and they were the only ones remaining.

Q locks up with tidy, efficient movements, throwing Bond a small smile as he checks the inventory. Bond feels himself soften then, memories of the past twelve hours fading but not forgotten at the back of his mind, a treasure trove of nightmares ready to feed into his sleep later. But for now, he’s calm, steady and sturdy with Q’s ready presence next to him, finally locking up the lab behind them.

They go home like this, taking the Tube with fingers barely brushing the other’s, sometimes locking together in an almost chaste show of contact. They ride in silence, pretending to be nonchalant of the comfortable companionship, bumping hips in a mostly empty train carriage. No one comments, and Bond lets himself indulge in the warm, curling anticipation growing in his belly.

*

They don’t take to long to prepare; just enough to make sure Q is comfortable. Bond doesn't skimp on the exploring, screwing in fingers deep and stroking the silky inner wall, murmuring “Good boy, good boy” while Q gasps at the teasing brushes over his prostate.

He has one of his favourite plug fitted in, stretching him until he’s panting, the divot of his spine growing deeper as he arches when Bond taps the base of the plug. Bond couldn’t resist; bending down to give a long, leisurely lick at the sweat gathered there, patting Q’s rump lightly to get him up, skin tingling with excitement.

He pulls Q up into a rough kiss, tasting and devouring as Q, jelly limbed and sensitive, stumbles against him and throws himself into the kiss, tugging at the half knotted tie dangling off his neck. “None of that now,” he says, as if admonishing Bond’s sudden prudishness, peeling back layer after layer until Bond stops him.

“Patience,” he growls, nipping on plush lips, tapping a finger on the exaggerated pout.

Q sighs. “You’re insufferable.” He tosses his hair from his face. “I’ll be old and impotent before you even think to get on with it.” He slips out of the bathroom in all his glory, unashamedly showing off the plushness of his arse, then half turns, showing an eye under the tumbling curls, coquettish. “Or I could always get started without you.”

But he wouldn’t dare, because Bond knows Q is as hungry for it as he is, eager for his favourite pastime.

So there they are, a half hour later, Bond on the sofa, legs spread lazily wide, a scotch in hand and a remote in the other, watching a late night documentary on bees while Q warms his cock from where he was fitted snugly between his thighs. He’s not hard, not yet; there’s time for that later. For now, he concentrates on the soft wetness nursing him in tiny suckles, Q’s fine boned wrists hooked around his ankles, his form cushioned by the cloud of pillow he kneels on.

Bond doesn’t have to look to know Q is not entirely here. If he were to tip his head up, he’d see the blurring mist of green-grey eyes, Q sinking deep enough into his world that it might take a while before he comes back.

They’ve talked about this before; Q loves the weight and taste of it, love the way it lies throbbing, hot, alive, just before it thickens with blood and fills his pretty mouth to the point of bursting. There’s a certain joy in holding it in, being helpless, being used, and he shows it in the quiet, satisfied stroking of his tongue, brushing across the underside vein as he kneels almost primly before Bond.

It’s only when Bond idly thumbs the remote setting up a notch that Q comes alive, slowly and by increments, twisting this way and that, unconscious whimpers sending vibrations through him. He toys with Q, alternating the settings in a random manner until he gets a glare for his troubles. And then, Q decides to take revenge all on his own.

He pulls up with no warning, fingers unhooking from Bond’s ankles to immediately cover the flesh exposed, stiffening the tip of his tongue to lap kittenish at the tip, rolling the head over pursed lips to spread the slickness, bending a little for an angle, all the better to lick him with broad, leisurely strokes. Bond hisses and feels himself start to harden - damn Q and his uncanny ability to get him hard in ten seconds or less - and tries to concentrate on the documentary, staring unseeing at the garish light reflecting off the milk of Q’s skin.

Q obviously wasn’t having any of that, and he shows his displeasure by rearing up and swallowing Bond - down to the root, no warning, no mercy. He sucks, throat constricting in milking pulls around the head, gags a little when Bond groans and buck up.

“Sorry, sorry,” Bond pants, and Q’s reproachful look fades into a smirk, an actual smirk - the cheek of it - smiling and moaning around his cock like a two-bit whore, bobbing his head messily to elicit the loudest fucking squelches as buries his head all the way down and drools all over the expensive wool of Bond’s trousers.

“Come here,” Bond pants, almost an order and most definitely a desperate plea. He tangles through the thick bed of curls, smoothing his thumb over Q’s forehead and tugging none to gently on the hair. “Comes here, you little slut. Sit on my lap. Then maybe I can fill you up, split you like you want me to, hm?” Q makes a little gasp at that, redoubling his efforts and sucking harder, the outline of the girth almost visible through his hollowed cheeks.

“Oh, you naughty boy,” Bond murmurs. “You like that don’t you? Calling you a slut, a whore, a hole waiting to be filled. Excites you doesn’t it? That I can pin you against the wall, throw you on the floor and use that tight little hole just the way you like it, rough as you please. You’ll be open and wet and ready for me, won’t you? Oh, such a good boy. Acting so sweet to get what you like.”

Q pulls off with a pop, scrambling up with uncoordinated movements onto Bond’s lap, panting as he pulls the plug out. Bond’s cock bobs lewdly between them, leaking over their stomach and sliding against Q’s as it hangs out obscenely through the plackett of the zippers. “Shut up.” Q says. “Shut up, shut up, shut up…” His voice rises to a whine at the end, and he’s too far gone for anything else when he sinks down on Bond, head thrown back at the initial burn, lips mouthing wetly at the air as he seats himself down.

“You have to move, darling,” Bond says, a tad urgently. “Here, let me-”

But Q just sits there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t grind.

Bond swears and grips Q’s hips bruisingly tight, debating on whether to use brute force for this. The warning flash in Q’s eyes stops him, though, makes his hands recede, until the nails were no longer digging imprints into flesh. Q doesn’t give, and he feels the earlier frustration and anger start to rise again.

He growls, thrashes, fights, the animal in him spoiling for dominance, needing to follow through with this routine of a quick, brutal fucking except. Except. He struggles to remain in the moment, remembering where he is, who he’s with.

Q strokes and kneads his his shoulders with shushes and pets, peppering kisses wherever he could reach, holding Bond inside himself with ease, clenching and pulling with secret muscles, waiting patient and forgiving for Bond to come back. He always does in the end.

He finally lets Q massage him into a limp and indolent mess, legs splayed limply and breathing deep, staring at Q with stars in his eyes.

Q smiles, not the bland professional one he gives at work, not the sharp, glittering ones when he’s wanting a tussle, but the wide, genuine one, sincerity etched in the crinkles of his eyes, so beautiful he could cry. Q moves, pushing himself up and pressing down, long strokes and soft cries, the overwhelming sensation of it all making the both of them moan.

They come like this, between the uncountable number of breaths they share, the stiffness of his joints dissolving afterwards, trying so very hard to paint over the painful memories with the ones of Q, quickening his pace as he drives towards the end, the silent, almost gentle sigh as he slumps down on Bond, and the heaviness of his slumber filled limbs when Bond carries him back to their room.

He cannot guarantee they will stay, that they will not chip and peel and crumble, but there are more things to soak his too old bones in now, like Q cuddling and snuffling his way into Bond’s arms, the fit of their torso in the dark, and the drumbeat march of their heartbeats pushing him on. And so he is content with this silence, as his emotions cool to the touch.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Within Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7021345) by [beaubete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete)




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